III
On June first, ten days before blastoff, David Lester came back to theshop, sheepishness, pleasure and worry showing in his face.
"I cleared up matters at home, guys," he said. "And I went toMinneapolis and obtained one of these." He held up the same kind ofspace-fitness card that the others had.
"The tests are mostly passive," he explained further. "Anybody can bewhirled in a centrifuge, or take a fall. That is somewhat simpler, inits own way, than clinging to a careening motor scooter. Though I doadmit that I was still almost rejected...! So, I'll join you, again--ifI'm permitted? I understand that my old gear has been completed, as aspare? Paul told me. Of course I'm being crusty, in asking to have itback, now?"
"Uh-uh, Les--I'm sure that's okay," Ramos grunted. "Right, fellas?"
The others nodded.
A subdued cheerfulness seemed to possess Lester, the mamma's boy, as ifhe had eased and become less introverted. The Bunch took him backreadily enough, though with misgivings. Still, the mere fact that acompanion could return, after defeat, helped brace their uncertainmorale.
"I'll order you a blastoff ticket, Les," Frank Nelsen said. "In one ofthe two GOs--ground-to-orbit rockets--reserved for us. The space isstill there..."
David Lester had won a battle. He meant to win through, completely.Perhaps some of this determination was transmitted to the others.Two-and-Two Baines, for example, seemed more composed.
There wasn't much work to do during those last days, after the equipmenthad been inspected and approved, the initials of each man painted in redon his blastoff drum, and all the necessary documents put in order.
Mitch Storey rode a bus to Mississippi, to say goodbye to his folks. TheKuzaks flew to Pennsylvania for the same reason. Likewise, Gimp Hineswent by train to Illinois. Ramos rode his scooter all the way down toEast Texas and back, to see his parents and a flock of younger brothersand sisters. When he returned, he solemnly gave his well-worn vehicleto an earnest boy still in high school.
"No dough," Ramos said. "I just want her to have a good home."
Those of the Bunch who had families didn't run into any serious lastminute objections from them about their going into space. Blasting outwas getting to be an accepted destiny.
There was a moment of trouble with Two-and-Two Baines about a kid ofeight years named Chippie Potter, who had begun to hang aroundHendricks' just the way Frank Nelsen had done, long ago. But moreespecially, the trouble was about Chippie's fox terrier, Blaster.
"The lad of course can't go along with us, Out There, on account ofschool and his Mom," Two-and-Two said sentimentally, on one of thosefinal evenings. "So he figures his mutt should go in his place. Shucks,maybe he's right! A lady mutt first made it into orbit, ahead of anypeople, remember? And we ought to have a mascot. We could make a sealedair-conditioned box and smuggle old Blaster. Afterwards, he'd be allright, inside a bubb."
"You try any stunt like that and I'll shoot you," Frank Nelsen promised."Things are going to be complicated enough."
"You always tell me no, Frank," Two-and-Two mourned.
"I know something else," said Joe Kuzak--he and his tough twin hadreturned to Jarviston by then, as had all the others who had visitedtheir homes. "There's a desperate individual around, again. Tiflin. Heappealed his test--and lost. Kind of a good guy--someways..."
The big Kuzaks, usually easy and steady and not too comical, both had acertain kind of expression, now--like amused and secretive gorillas.Frank wasn't sure whether he got the meaning of this or not, but rightthen he felt sort of sympathetic to Tiflin, too.
"I didn't hear anything; I won't say or do anything," he laughed.
Afterwards, under the pressure of events, he forgot the whole matter.
It would take about thirty-six hours to get to the New Mexico spaceport.Calculating accordingly, the Bunch hoisted their gear aboard twocanvas-covered trucks parked in the driveway beside Hendricks', justbefore sundown of their last day in Jarviston.
People had begun to gather, to see them off. Two-and-Two's folks, asolid, chunky couple, looking grave. David Lester's mother, of course,seeming younger than the Bunch remembered her. Make-up brought back someof her good-looks. She was more Spartan than they had thought, too.
"I have made up a basket of sandwiches for you and your comrades,Lester," she said.
Otto Kramer was out with free hotdogs, beer and Pepsi, his face sad. J.John Reynolds, backer of the Bunch, had promised to come down, later.Chief of Police, Bill Hobard, was there, looking grim, as if he was halfglad and half sorry to lose this passel of law-abiding but worrisomeyoung eccentrics. There were various cynical and curious loafers around,too. There were Chippie Potter and his mutt--a more wistful andworshipping pair would have been hard to imagine.
Sophia Jameson, one of Charlie Reynolds' old flames, was there. Charliehad sold his car and given away his wardrobe, but he still managed tolook good in a utilitarian white coverall.
"Well, we had a lot of laughs, anyway, you big ape!" Sophia was sayingto Charlie, when Roy Harder, the mailman with broken-down feet, shuffledup, puffing.
"One for you, Reynolds," he said. "Also one for you, Nelsen. They justcame--ordinarily I wouldn't deliver them till tomorrow morning. But yousee how it is."
A long, white envelope was in Frank Nelsen's hands. In its upperleft-hand corner was engraved:
UNITED STATES SPACE FORCE RECRUITING SECTION WASHINGTON, D.C.
"Jeez, Frankie--Charlie--you made it--open 'em, quick!" Two-and-Twosaid.
Frank was about to do so. But everybody knew exactly what was insidesuch an envelope--the only thing that was ever so enclosed, unless youwere already in the Force. An official summons to report, on such andsuch a date and such and such a place, for examination.
For a minute Frank Nelsen suffered the awful anguish of indecision overa joke of circumstance. Like most of the others, he had tried to getinto the Force. He had given it up as hopeless. Now, when he was readyto move out on his own, the chance came. Exquisite irony.
Frank felt the lift of maybe being one of--well--the Chosen. To wear thered, black and silver rocket emblem, to use the finest equipment, tocarry out dangerous missions, to exercise authority in space, and yet tobe pampered, as those who make a mark in life are pampered.
"_Que milagro!_--holy cow!" Ramos breathed."Charlie--Frankie--congratulations!"
Frank saw the awed faces around them. They were looking up to him andCharlie in a friendly way, but already he felt that he had kind of lostthem by being a little luckier. Or was this all goof ball sentiment inhis own mind, to make himself feel real modest?
So maybe he got sentimental about this impoverished, ragtag Bunch that,even considering J. John Reynolds' help, still were pulling themselvesup into space almost literally by their own bootstraps. He had alwaysbelonged to the Bunch, and he still did. So perhaps he just got sore.
Charlie's and his eyes met for a second, in understanding.
"Thanks, Postman Roy," Charlie said. "Only you were right the firsttime. These letters shouldn't be delivered until your next trip around,tomorrow morning."
They both handed the envelopes back to Roy Harder.
The voices of their Bunch-mates jangled in a conflicting chorus.
"Ah--yuh damfools!" Two-and-Two bleated.
"Good for them!" Art Kuzak said, perhaps mockingly.
"Hey--they're us--they'll stay with us--shut up--didn't we lose enoughpeople, already?" Gimp said.
Frank grinned with half of his mouth. "We always needed a name," heremarked. "How about _The Planet Strappers_? Hell--if the chairborneechelon of the U.S.S.F. is so slow and picky, let 'em go sit on asunspot."
"I need some white paint and a brush, Paul," Ramos declared, runninginto the shop.
In a couple of minutes more, the name for the Bunch was crudely andboldly lettered on the sides of both trucks.
"Salute your ladies, shake hands with your neighbors, and then let's getmoving," Char
lie Reynolds laughed genially.
And so they did. Old Paul Hendricks, born too soon, blinked a little ashe grinned, and slapped shoulders. "On your way, you lucky tramps...!"
There were quick movements here and there--a kiss, a touch of hands, asmall gesture, a strained glance.
Frank Nelsen blew a kiss jauntily to Nance Codiss, the neighbor girl,who waved to him from the background. "So long, Frank..." He wondered ifhe saw a fierce envy showing in her face.
Miss Rosalie Parks, his high school Latin teacher, was there, too. OldJ. John Reynolds appeared at the final moment to smile dryly and to flapa waxy hand.
"So long, sir... Thanks..." they all shouted as the diesels of thetrucks whirred and then roared. J. John still had never been around theshop. It was only Frank who had seen him regularly, every week. It mighthave been impertinent for them to say that they'd make him really rich.But some must have hoped that they'd get rich, themselves.
Frank Nelsen was perched on his neatly packed blastoff drum in the backof one of the trucks, as big tires began to turn. Near him, similarlyperched, were Mitch Storey, dark and thoughtful, Gimp Hines with atriumph in his face, Two-and-Two Baines biting his lip, and Dave Lesterwith his large Adam's apple bobbing.
So that was how the Bunch left Jarviston, on a June evening that smelledof fresh-cut hay and car fumes--home. Perhaps they had chosen this hourto go because the gathering darkness might soften their hauntingsuspicions of complete folly before an adventure so different from thelife they knew--neat streets, houses, beds, Saturday nights, dances,struggling for a dream at Hendricks'--that even if they survived thechange, the difference must seem a little like death.
Seeking the lifting thread of magical romance again, Frank Nelsen lookedup at the ribbed canvas top of the truck. "Covered wagon," he said.
"Sure--Indians--boom-boom," Two-and-Two chuckled, brightening. "WildWest... Yeah--_wild_--that's a word I kind of like."
Up ahead, in the other truck, Ramos and Charlie Reynolds had begun tosing a funny and considerably ribald song. They made lots of lusty,primitive noise. When they were finished, Ramos, still in a spirit ofhumor, corned up an old Mexican number about disappointed love.
_"Adios, Mujer--
Adios para siempre--
Adios..."_
Ramos wailed out the last syllable with lugubrious emphasis.
"Always it's girls," Dave Lester managed to chuckle. "I still don't seehow they expect to find many, Out There."
"If our Eileen has--or will--make it, she won't be the first--or last,"Frank offered, almost mystically.
"Hey--I was right about the word, _wild_," Two-and-Two mused."Yeah--we're all just plum-full of wanting to be wild. Not _mean_ wild,mostly--constructive wild, instead. And, damn, we'll _do_ it...!Cripes--we ought to come back to old Paul's place in June, ten yearsfrom now, and tell each other what we've accomplished."
"Damn--that's a fine idea, Two-and-Two!" David Lester piped up. "I'llsuggest it to the other guys, first chance I get...!"
Of course it was another piece of callow whistling in the dark, but itwas a buildup, too. Coming home at a fixed, future time, to compareglittering successes. Eldorados found and exploited, cities built, giantbusinesses established, hearts won, real manhood achieved paststaggering difficulties. But they all had to believe it, to combat theicy sliver of dread concerning an event that was getting very near, now.
Mitch Storey sat with his mouth organ cupped in his hands. He began tomake soft, musing chords, tried a fragment of Old Man River, shiftedbriefly to a spiritual, and wound up with some eerie, impromptufragments, partly like the drums and jingling brass of old Africa,partly like a joyful battle, partly like a lonesome lament, and then,mysteriously like absolute silence.
Storey stopped, abashed. He grinned.
"Reaching for Out There, Mitch?" Frank Nelsen asked. "Music of your own,to tell about space? Got any words for it?"
"Nope," Mitch said. "Maybe it shouldn't have any words. Anyhow, the tunedoesn't come clear, yet. I haven't been--There."
"Maybe some more of Otto's beer will help," Frank suggested. "Here--onecan, each, to begin." For once, Frank had an urge to get slightlypie-eyed.
"High's a good word," he amended. "High and sky! Mars and stars!"
"Space and race, nuts and guts!" Lester put in, trying to belong, and belight-minded, like he thought the others were, instead of a scared,pedantic kid. He slapped the blastoff drum under him, familiarly, as ifto draw confidence from its grim, cool lines.
The whole Bunch was quite a bit like that, for a good part of the night,shouting lustily back and forth between the two trucks, laughing,singing, wise-cracking, drinking up Otto Kramer's Pepsi and beer.
But at last, Gimp Hines, remembering wisdom, spoke up. "We're supposedto be under mild sedation--a devil-killer, a tranquilizer--for at leastthirty hours. It's in the rules for prospective ground-to-orbitcandidates. We're supposed to be sleeping good. Here goes my pill--down,with the last of my beer..."
Faces sobered, and became strained and careful, again. The guys on thetrucks bedded down as best they could, among their gaunt equipment. Soonthere were troubled snores from huddled figures that quivered with themotion of the vehicles. The mottled Moon rode high. Big tires whisperedon damp concrete. Lights blinked past. The trucks curved around corners,growled up grades, highballed down. There were pauses at all-nightdrive-ins, coffees misguidedly drunk in a blurred, fur-tongued halfwakefulness that seemed utterly bleak. Oh, hell, Frank Nelsen thought,wasn't it far better to be home in bed, like Jig Hollins?
At grey dawn, there was a breakfast stop, the two truck drivers andtheir relief man grinning cynically at the Bunch. Then there was morecountry, rolling and speeding past. Wakefulness was half sleep, andvice-versa. And the hours, through the day and another night, dwindledtoward blastoff time, at eleven o'clock tomorrow morning.
When the second dawn came, the Bunch were all tautly and wearily alertagain, peering ahead, across dun desert. There wasn't much fallout fromthe carefully developed hydrogen-fusion engines of the GO rockets, butmaybe there was enough to distort the genes of the cacti a little,making their forms more grotesque.
Along the highway there were arrows and signs. When the trucks hadlabored to the top of a ridge, the spaceport installations came intoview all at once:
Barbed-wire fences, low, olive-drab gate buildings, guidance tower, themagnesium dome of a powerhouse reactor, repair and maintenance shops,personnel-housing area carefully shielded against radiation by a hugestellene bubble, sealed and air-conditioned, with double-dooredentrances and exits. Inside it were visible neat bungalows, lawns,gardens, supermarket, swimming pools, swings, a kid's bike left casuallyhere or there.
The first sunshine glinted on the two rockets and their single,attendant gantry tower, waiting on the launching pad. The rockets wereas gaunt as sharks. They might almost have been natural spires on theMoon, or ruined towers left by the extinct beings of Mars. At first theywere impersonal and expected parts of the scene, until the numbers,ceramic-enamelled on their striped flanks, were noticed: GO-11 andGO-12.
"They're us--up the old roller coaster!" Charlie Reynolds shouted.
Then everybody was checking his blastoff ticket, as if he didn'tremember the number primly typed on it. Frank Nelsen had GO-12.GO--Ground-to-Orbit. But it might as well mean go! glory, or gallows, hethought.
The trucks reached the gate. The Bunch met the bored and cynicalreception committee--a half-dozen U.S.S.F. men in radiation coveralls.
Each of the Bunch held his blastoff ticket, his space-fitness and hisequipment-inspection cards meekly in sweaty fingers. It was an oldstory--the unknowing standing vulnerable before the knowing and perhapsharsh.
Nelsen guessed at some of the significance of the looks they allreceived: Another batch of greenhorns--to conquer and develop andpopulate the extra-terrestrial regions. They all come the same way, andlook alike. Poor saps...
Frank Nelsen longed to paste somebody, even in the absence of absolute
impoliteness.
The blastoff drums were already being lifted off the trucks, weighed,screened electronically, and moved toward a loading elevator on aconveyor. The whole process was automatic.
"Nine men--ten drums--how come?" one of the U.S.S.F. people inquired.
"A spare. Its GO carriage charge is paid," Reynolds answered.
He got an amused and tired smirk. "Okay, Sexy--it's all right with us.And I hope you fellas were smart enough not to eat any breakfast. Ofcourse we'd like to have you say--tentatively--where you'll be headed,on your own power, after we toss you Upstairs. Toward the Moon, huh,like most fledglings say? It helps a little to know. Some new folksstart to scream and get lost, up there. See how it is?"
"Sure--we see--thanks. Yes--the Moon." This was still Charlie Reynoldstalking.
"No problem, then, Sexy. We mean to be gentle. Now let's move along, inline. Never mind consulting wristwatches--we've got over four hoursleft. Final blood pressure check, first. Then the shot, thedevil-killer, the wit-sharpener. And try to remember some of what you'resupposed to have learned. Relax, don't talk too much, and try not toswallow any live butterflies."
The physician, looking them over, shook his head and made a wry face ofinfinite sadness, when he came to Gimp and Lester, but he offered nocomment except a helpless shrug.
The U.S.S.F. spokesman was still with them. "All right--armor up. Let'ssee how good you are at it."
They scrambled to it grimly, and still a little clumsily. Gimp Hineshad, of course, long ago tailored his Archer to fit that shrunken rightleg. Then they just sat around in the big locker room, trying to getused to being enclosed like this, much of the time, checking to see thateverything was functioning right, listening to the muffled voices thatstill reached them from beyond their protecting encasement. They couldstill have conversed, by direct sound or by helmet-radio, but thedevil-killer seemed to subdue the impulse, and for a while caused adreaminess that shortened the long wait...
"Okay--time to move!"
Heavy with their Archies, they filed out into desert sun-glare thattheir darkened helmets made feeble. They arose in the long climb of thegantry elevator and split into two groups, for the two rockets,according to their GO numbers. It didn't seem to matter, now, who wentwith whom. Each man had his own private sweating party. The paddedpassenger compartments were above the blastoff drum freight sections.
"Helmets secure? Air-restorer systems on? Phones working? Answer rollcall if you hear me. Baines, George?"
"Here!" Two-and-Two responded, loud and plain in Frank Nelsen's phone,from the other rocket.
"Hines, Walter?"
One by one the names were called... "Kuzak, Arthur?... Kuzak,Joseph?..."
"Okay--the Mystic Nine, eh? Lash down!"
They lay on their backs on the padded floors, and fastened the straps.Gimp Hines, next to Frank, seemed to have discarded his crutches,somewhere.
The inspector swaggered around among them, jerking straps, and tappingshoulders and buttocks straight on the floor padding with a boot toe.
"All right--not good, not too bad. Ease off--shut your eyes, maybe. Thenext twenty minutes are ours. The rest are yours, except for orders. Ihope you remember your jump procedures. Also that there are a lot ofwooden nickels Upstairs--in orbit, on the Moon, anyplace. We'll callsome of your shots from the ground. Good luck--and Glory help you..."
The growl in their phones died away with the muffled footsteps. Doorsclosed on their gaskets and were dogged, automatically.
Then it was like waiting five minutes more, inside a cannon barrel.There was a buzzing whisper of nuclear exciters. The roar of power cutin. A soft lurch told that the rockets were off the ground--fireborne.The pressure of acceleration mounted. You closed your eyes to make theblackness seem natural, instead of a blackout in your optic nerves, andthe threadiness of your mind seem like sleep. But you felt smothered,just the same. Somebody grunted. Somebody gave a thick cry.
Frank Nelsen had the strange thought that, by his body's mountingvelocity, enough kinetic energy was being pumped into it to burn it tovapor in an instant, if it ever hit the air. But it was the energy offreedom from gravity, from the Earth, from home--_for_ adventure.Freedom to wander the solar system, at last! He tried, still, to believein the magnificence of it, as the thrust of rocket power ended, and theweightlessness of orbital flight came dizzily.
He didn't consciously hear the order to leave the orbiting GO-12, whichwas moving only about five hundred feet from it's companion, GO-11. But,like most of the others, he worked his way with dogged purpose throughwhat seemed a fuzzy nightmare.
The doors of the passenger compartments had opened; likewise theblastoff drums had been ejected automatically, and were orbiting free.
Maybe it was Gimp who moved ahead of him. Looking out, Frank saw whatwas certainly Ramos, already straddling a drum marked with a huge redM.R., riding it like a jaunty troll on a seahorse. He saw the Kuzaksdive for their initialled drums, big men not yet as apt in this new gameas in football, but grimly determined to learn fast. The motion was allas silent as a shadow.
Then Frank jumped for his own drum, and found himself turning slowlyend-over-end, seeing first the pearl-mist curve that was the Earth, thenthe brown-black, chalk-smeared sky, with the bright needle points andthe corona-winged sun in it. Instinct made him grab futilely outward,for the sense of weightlessness was the same as endless fall. He _was_falling, around the Earth, his forward motion exactly balancing hisdownward motion, in a locked ellipse, a closed trajectory.
His mind cleared very fast--that must have been another phase of thedevil-killer shot coming into action. Controlling panic, he relocatedhis drum, marked by a splashed red F.N., set his tiny shoulder ionic inoperation, and reached back to move its flexible guide, first to stophis spin, then to produce forward motion. He got to the drum, and justclung to it for a moment.
But in the next instant he was looking into the embarrassed, anguishedface of a person, who, like a drowning man, had come to hang onto it fordear life, too.
"Frank, I--I even dirtied myself..."
"So what? Over there is your gear, Two-and-Two--go get it!" Frankshouted into his phone, the receiver of which was now full of sounds--amoaning grunt, a vast hiccuping, shouts, exhortations.
"Easy, Les," Reynolds was saying. "Can you reach a pill from the rackinside your chest plate, and swallow it? Just float quietly--nothing'llhappen. We've got work to do for a few minutes... We'll look after youlater... Cripes, Mitch--he can't take it. Jab the knockout needle rightthrough the sleeve of his Archer, like we read in the manuals. Theinterwall gum will seal the puncture..."
Just then the order came, maddeningly calm and hard above the othersounds in Frank's phone: "All novices disembarked from GOs-11 and -12must clear four-hundred mile take-off orbital zone for other trafficwithin two hours."
At once Frank was furiously busy, working the darkened stellene of hisbubb from the drum, letting it spread like a long wisp of silvery cobwebagainst the stars, letting it inflate from the air-flasks to a firm andbeautiful circle, attaching the rigging, the fine, radialspokewires--for which the blastoff drum itself now formed the hub. Tothe latter he now attached his full-size, sun-powered ionic motor. Thenhe crept through the double sealing flaps of the airlock, to install theair-restorer and the moisture-reclaimer in the circular, tunnel-likeinterior that would now be his habitation.
He wasn't racing anything except time, but he had worked as fast as hecould. Still, Gimp Hines had finished rigging his bubb, minutes ahead ofFrank, or anybody else. On second thought, maybe this was naturalenough. Here, where there was no weight, his useless leg made nodifference--as the space-fitness examiners must have known. Besides,Gimp had talented fingers and a keen mechanical sense, and had alwaystried harder than anybody.
Ramos was almost as quick. Frank wasn't much farther behind. The Kuzakswere likewise doing all right. Two-and-Two was trailing some, but notvery badly.
"Spin 'em!" Gimp shouted. "Don't forget to spin 'em f
orcentrifuge-gravity and stability!"
And so they did, each gripping the rigging at their bubb rims, and usingthe minute but accumulative thrust of the shoulder ionics of theirArchers, to provide the push. The inflated rings turned like wheels withperfect bearings. In the all but frictionless void, they could go onturning for decades, without additional impetus.
"We've made it--we're Out Here--we're all right!" Ramos was shoutingwith a fierce exultation.
"Shut up, Ramos!" Frank Nelsen yelled back. "Don't ever say that, toosoon. Look around you!"
Storey and Reynolds were still struggling with their bubbs. They hadbeen delayed by trying to quiet Dave Lester, who now floated in adrugged stupor, lashed to his blastoff drum.
Slowly, pushed by their shoulder ionics, Gimp, Ramos and Frank Nelsendrifted over to see what they could do for Lester.
He was vaguely conscious, his eyes were glassy, his mouth drooled wateryvomit.
"What do you want us to do, Les?" Frank asked gently. "We could put youback in one of the rockets. You'd be brought back to the spaceport, whenthey are guided back by remote control."
"I don't know!" Lester wailed in a hoarse voice. "Fellas--I don't know!A little falling is all right... But it goes on all the time. I can'tstand it! But if I'm sent back--I can't ever live with myself!..."
Frank felt the intense anguish of trying to decide somebody else'squandary that might be a life or death matter which would surely involvethem all. Damn, weak-kneed kid! How had he ever gotten so far?
"We should have set up his bubb first, put him inside, and spun it tokill that sense of fall!" Gimp said. "We'll do it, now! He should be allright. He _did_ pass his space-fitness tests, and the experts ought toknow."
With the three of them at it, and with the Kuzaks joining them in amoment, the job was quickly finished.
Meanwhile, the sharp, commanding voice of Ground Control sounded intheir phones, again: "GOs-11 and -12 returning to port. Is all in orderamong delivered passengers? Sound out if true. Baines, George?..."
David Lester's name was called just before Frank Nelsen's, and hemanaged to say, "In order!" almost firmly, creating a damnable illusion,Frank thought. But for a moment, mixed with his anger, Frank felt astrange, almost paternal gentleness, too.
At the end of the roll call, the doors of the GO rockets closed. Stubbywings, useful for the ticklish operation of skip-glide deceleration andre-entry into the atmosphere, slid out of their sheaths. Little, lateraljets turned the vehicles around. Their main engines flamed lightly;losing speed, they dipped in their paths, beginning to fall.
Watching the rockets leave created a tingling sense of being left allalone, at an empty, breathless height from which you could never getdown--a height full of dazzling, unnatural sunshine, that in momentswould become the dreadful darkness of Earth's shadow.
"Hey--our spare drum--it'll drift off!" Ramos shouted.
The Kuzaks dived to retrieve the cylinder. Others followed. But therewas a peculiar circumstance. The friction cover at one of its ends hungopen. There was a trailing wisp of stellene--part of the bubb packedinside--and a thin, angry face with rather hysterical eyes, within thehelmet of an Archer Five.
"Shhh--it ain't safe for me to come out yet," Glen Tiflin hissedthreateningly. "Damn you all--if you dare queer me...!"
"Cripes--another Jonah!" Charlie Reynolds growled.
Frank Nelsen looked at the Kuzaks, floating near.
"Well--what could we do?" Joe Kuzak, the gentler twin, whispered. "Hecame back to Jarviston, to our rooming house, one night. We promised tohelp him a little. What are you going to do with a character nuts enoughabout space to armor up and stuff himself inside a blastoff drum? Ofcourse he didn't come that way from home. There's that electronic checkof drum contents at the gate of the port. But he was there on avisitor's pass, waiting--having hitchhiked all the way to here. Afterthe electronic check, he figured on stowing away, while the drums werewaiting to be loaded. The only thing we did to help was to take a littleof the stuff out of the spare drum and stow it in our two drums, toleave him some room. We thought sure he'd be caught, quick. But you cansee how he got away with it. Those U.S.S.F. boys at the port don'treally give a damn who gets Out Here."
"Okay--I'll buy it," Reynolds sighed heavily. "Good luck with the stunt,Tif."
Tiflin only gave him a poisonous glare, as the nine fragile, gleamingrings, the drifting men and the spare drum, orbited on into the Earth'sshadow, not nearly as dark as it might have been because the Moon wasbrilliant.
"We'd better rig the parabolic mirrors of the ionics to catch the firstsunshine in about forty minutes, so we can start moving out of orbit,"Ramos said. "We'll have to think of food, sometime, too."
"Food, yet--ugh!" Art Kuzak grunted.
Frank felt the fingers of spasm taking hold of his stomach. Mosteverybody was getting fall-sick, now, their insides not finding any upor down direction. But the guys wavered back to their bubbs. Theshoulder ionics of their Archers, though normally sun-energized, coulddraw power from the small nuclear batteries of the armor during the raremoments when there could be darkness anywhere in solar space.
The Planet Strappers stood in the rigging of their fragile vehicles,setting the full-sized ionics to produce increased acceleration whichwould gradually push the craft beyond orbit. Joe Kuzak ran a steel wirefrom a pivot bolt at the hub of his ring, to tow Tiflin and his drum.
Then everybody crawled into their respective bubbs, most of them needingthe centrifugal gravity to help straighten out their fall-sickness.
"My neck is swelling, too," Frank Nelsen heard Charlie Reynolds say."Lymphatic glands sometimes bog down in the absence of weight. Don'tworry if it happens to some of you. We know that it straightens out."
For a few minutes it seemed that they had a small respite in theirstruggle for adjustment to a fantastic environment.
"Well--I got cleaned up, some--that's better," Two-and-Two said. "Butlook at the fuzzy lights down on Earth. Hell, is it right for a fella tobe looking down on the lights of Paris, Moscow, Cairo, and Rangoon--whenhe hasn't ever been any farther than Minneapolis?" Two-and-Two soundedfabulously befuddled.
David Lester started screaming again. They had left him alone andapparently unconscious, inside his ring, because all ionics, includinghis, had had to be set. Then, in the pressure of events, they had almostforgotten him.
"I'll go look," Frank Nelsen said.
Mitch Storey was there ahead of him. Mitch's helmet was off; his darkface was all planes and hollows in the moonlight coming through thethin, transparent walls of the vehicle. "Should we call the U.S.S.F.patrol, Frank?" he asked anxiously. "Have them take him off? 'Cause hesure can't stand another devil-killer."
"We'd better," Frank answered quickly.
But now Tiflin, having deserted his blastoff drum, was coming throughthe airlock flaps, too. He stepped forward gingerly, along the spinning,ring-shaped tunnel.
"Poor bookworm," he growled in a tone curiously soft for Glen Tiflin."Think I don't understand how it is? And how do you know if he _wants_to get sent back?"
Mitch had removed Lester's helmet, too. Tiflin knelt. His arm moved withsavage quickness. There was the crack of knuckles, in a rubberizedsteel-fabric space glove, against Lester's jaw. His hysterical eyesglazed and closed; his face relaxed.
For a second of intolerable fury, Frank wanted to tear Tiflin apart.
But Mitch half-grinned. "That might be an answer," he said.
They plopped where they were, and tried to rest until the orbitingcluster of rings emerged from Earth's shadow into blazing sunshine,again. Then Mitch and Frank returned to their own bubbs to check on theacceleration.
It was soon plain that Joe Kuzak's bubb, towing Tiflin's drum, wouldlag.
"Hell!" Art Kuzak snapped. "Get that character out here to help usinflate and rig his own equipment! We did enough for him! So if theForce notices that there are ten bubbs instead of nine, the extra isstill just our spare... Hey--Tiflin!"
"Nuts--I
'm looking after Pantywaist," Tiflin growled back.
"Awright," Art returned. "So we just cast your junk adrift! Come on,boy!" There was no kidding in the dry tone.
Tiflin snarled but obeyed.
Ions jetting from the Earthward hub-ends of the rotating rings, yieldedtheir steady few pounds of thrust. The gradual outward spiral began.
"Cripes--I'm not sure I can even astrogate to the Moon," Two-and-Two washeard to complain.
"I'll check your ionic setting for you, Two-and-Two," Gimp answered him."After that the acceleration should continue properly without muchattention. So how about you and me taking first watch, while the othersease off a little...?"
Frank Nelsen crept carefully back into his own rotating ring, still halfafraid that an armored knee or elbow might go right through the thin,yielding stellene. Prone, and with his helmet still sealed, he slippedinto the fog which the tranquilizer now induced in his brain, while theuniverse of stars, Moon, sun and Earth tumbled regularly around him.
He dreamed of yelling in endless fall, and of climbing over metal-veinedchunks of a broken world, where once there had been air, sea, desert andforest, and minds not unlike those of men, but in bodies that were fardifferent. Gurgling thickly, he awoke, and snapped on his helmet phoneto kill the utter silence.
Someone muttered a prayer in a foreign tongue:
"... _Nuestra Dama de Guadalupe--te pido, por favor... Tengo miedo_--I'mscared... _Pero pienso mas en ella_--I think more of her. _Mi chula, milinda_... My beautiful Eileen... Keep her--"
The prayer broke off, as if a switch was turned. It had been brashRamos... Now there were only some fragments of harmonica music...
Frank slipped into the blur, again, awakening at last with Two-and-Twoshaking his shoulder. "Hey, Frankie--we're five hours out, by thechronometers--look how small the Earth has got...! We're all gonna havebrunch in Ramos' vehicle... Know what that goof ball Mex was doing,before? Stripped down to his shorts, and with the spin stopped forzero-G, he was bouncing back and forth from wall to wall inside hisbubb! The sun makes it nice and warm in there. Think I might try it,myself, sometime. Shucks, I feel pretty good, now... Frankie, ain't youhungry?"
Frank felt limp as a rag, but he felt much better than before, and hecould stand some nourishment. "Lead on, Two-and-Two," he said.
Ramos' bubb was spinning once more, but he was wearing just dungarees.The Bunch--the Planet Strappers--with only their helmets off, werecrouched, evenly spaced, around the circular interior of the ring. DaveLester was there, too--staring, but fairly calm, now. In this curiousplace, there was a delicious and improbable aroma of coffee--cooked bymirror-reflected sunlight on a tiny solar stove.
"So that's the way it goes," Charlie Reynolds commented profoundly. "Wereach out for strangeness. Then we try to make it as familiar as home."
"Stew, warmed in the cans, too," Ramos declared. "Enough for a lightone-time-around. I brought the stew along. Hope you birds remember.Then we're back on dehydrates. Hell, except for that weight problem andconsequent cost of stuff from Earth, we'd have it made, Out Here. TheBig Vacuum ain't so tough--no storms in it, even, to tear our bubbsapart. I guess we won't ever have a bigger adventure than finding outfor ourselves that we can get along with space."
"If we had a beef roast, we'd put it in a sealed container of clearplastic," Gimp laughed. "Set it turning, outside the bubb, on a swiveledtether wire. It would rotate for hours like on a spit--almost nofriction. Rig some mirrors to concentrate the sun's heat. Space Forcemen do things like that."
"Shut up--I'm getting _hong_-gry!" Art Kuzak roared.
Ramos poured the coffee in the thin magnesium cups that each of theBunch had brought. Their squeeze bottles, for zero-G drinking, were notnecessary, here. Their skimpy portions of stew were spooned on magnesiumplates. Knife and fork combinations were brought out. An apple pureewhich had been powder, followed the stew. Brunch was soon over.
"That's all for now, folks," Ramos said ruefully.
Tiflin snaked a cigarette out from inside the collar of his Archer.
"Hey!" Reynolds said mildly. "Oxygen, remember? Shouldn't you ask ourhost, first?"
Ramos had eased up on ribbing Tiflin months ago. "It's okay," he said."The air-restorers are new."
But Tiflin's explosive nerves, under strain for a long time, didn't takeit. He threw down the unlighted fag. He snicked his switch blade from athigh pocket. For an instant it seemed that he would attack Reynolds.Then the knife flew, and penetrated the thin, taut wall, to its handle.There was a frightening hiss, until the sealing gum between the doublelayers, cut off the leak.
The Kuzaks had Tiflin helpless and snarling, at once.
"Get a patch, somebody--fix up the hole," Joe, the mild one, growled."Tiflin--me and my brother helped you. Now we're gonna sit on you--justto make sure your funny business doesn't kill us all. Try anything just_once_, and we'll feed you all that vacuum--without an Archer. If you'rea good boy, maybe you'll live to get dumped on the Moon as we pass by."
"Nuts--let's give this sick rat to the Space Force right now." Art Kuzakhissed. "Here comes their patrol bubb."
The glinting, transparent ring with the barred white star was passing ata distance.
"All is well with you novices?" The enquiring voice was a gruff drawl,mingled with crunching sounds of eating--perhaps a candy bar.
"No!" Tiflin whispered, pleading. "I'll watch myself!"
The United Nations patrol was out, too, farther off. Another, darkerbubb, with other markings, passed by, quite close. It had foreign lines,more than a bit sinister to the Bunch's first, startled view. It was aTovie vehicle, representing the other side of the still--for the mostpart--passively opposed forces, on Earth, and far beyond. But throughthe darkened transparency of stellene, the armored figures--againsomewhat sinister--only raised their hands in greeting.
In a minute, Frank Nelsen emerged from Ramos' ring. Floating free, hestabilized himself, fussed with the radio antenna of his helmet-phonefor a moment, making its transmission and reception directional. On themisty, shrinking Earth, North America was visible.
"Frank Nelsen to Paul Hendricks," he said. "Frank Nelsen to PaulHendricks..."
Paul was waiting, all right. "Hello, Frankie. Some of the guys talkedalready--said you were asleep."
"Hi, Paul--yeah! Terra still looks big and beautiful. We're okay.Amazing, isn't it, how just a few watts of power, beamed out in a thinthread, will reach this far, and lots farther? Hey--will you open andshut your front door? Let's hear the old customer's bell jingle... Bestto you, to J. John, to Nance Codiss, Miss Parks--everybody..."
The squeak of hinges and the jingling came through, clear andnostalgically.
"Come on, Frank," Two-and-Two urged. "Other guys would like to talk toPaul... Hey, Paul--maybe you could get my folks down to the store to sayhello to me on your transmitter. And I guess Les would appreciate it ifyou got his mother..."
When the talk got private, Frank went to Mitch Storey's bubb.
"I wanted to show you," Mitch said. "I brought seeds, and these littleplastic tubes with holes in them, that you can string around inside abubb. The weight is next to nothing. Put the seeds in the tubes, andwater with plant food in solution. The plants come up through the holes.Hydroponics. Gotta almost do it, if I'm going way out to Mars withoutmuch supplies. Maybe, before I get there, I'll have even ripe tomatoes!'Cause, with sun all the time, the stuff grows like fury, they say. I'llhave string beans and onions and flowers, anyhow! Helps keep the airoxygen-fresh, too. Wish I had a few bumble bees! 'Cause now I'll have topollenate by hand..."
Nope--Mitch couldn't get away from vegetation, even in space.
The Planet Strappers soon established a routine for their journey out asfar as the Moon. There were watches, to be sure that none of the bubbsveered, while somebody was asleep or inattentive. Always at hand wereloaded rifles, because you never knew what kind of space-soured men--whomight once have been as tame as neighbors going for a drive on Sundayswith their families--m
ight be around, even here.
Neither Kuzak slept, if the other wasn't awake. They were watchingTiflin, whose bubb rode a little ahead of the others. He was ostracized,more or less.
Everybody took to Ramos' kind of exercise, bouncing around inside abubb--even Lester, who was calmer, now, but obviously strained by thevast novelty and uncertainty ahead.
"I gave you guys a hard time--I'm sorry," he apologized. "But I hopethere won't be any more of that. The Bunch will be breaking up, soon, Iguess--going here and there. And if I get a job at Serenitatis Base, Ithink I'll be okay."
Frank Nelsen hoped that he could escape any further part of Lester, buthe wasn't sure that he had the guts to desert him.
It wasn't long before the ionics were shut off. Enough velocity had beenattained. Soon, the thrust would be needed in reverse, for brakingaction, near the end of the sixty hour journey into a circumlunar orbit.
Sleep was a fitful, dream-haunted thing. Food was now mostly a kind ofgruel, rich in starches, proteins, fats and vitamins--each mealdifferently flavored, up to the number of ten flavors, in amanufacturer's attempt to mask the sameness. Add water to a powder--heatand eat. The spaceman's usual diet, while afield...
One of the functions of the moisture-reclaimers was a rough joke, or asqueamishness. A man's kidneys and bowels functioned, and precious watermolecules couldn't be wasted, here in the dehydrated emptiness. But whatdifference did it really make, after the sanitary distillation of areclaimer? Accept, adjust...
Decision about employment or activity in the immediate future, was onething that couldn't be dismissed. And announcements, beamed from theMoon, emphasized it:
"Serenitatis Base, seventeenth month-day, sixteenth hour. (There was achime) Lunar Projects Placement is here to serve you. Plastics-chemists,hydroponics specialists, machinists, mechanics, metallurgists, miners,helpers--all are urgently needed. The tax-free pay will startle you.Free subsistence and quarters. Here at Serene, at Tycho Station or at adozen other expanding sites..."
Charlie Reynolds sat with Frank Nelsen while he listened. "The lady hasa swell voice," said Charlie. "Otherwise, it _sounds_ good, too. But I'mone that's going farther. To Venus--just being explored. All fresh, andno man-made booby traps, at least. Maybe they'll even figure out a wayto make it rotate faster, give it a reasonably short day, and abreathable atmosphere--make a warmer second Earth out of it...Sometimes, when you jump farther, you jump over a lot of trouble. Betterthan going slow, with the faint-hearts. Their muddling misfortunes beginto stick to you. I'd rather be Mitch, headed for heebie-jeebie Mars, orthe Kuzaks, aiming for the crazy Asteroid Belt."
That was Charlie, talking to him--Frank Nelsen--like an older brother.It made a sharp doubt in him, again. But then he grinned.
"Maybe I am a slow starter," he said. "The Moon is near and humble, butsome say it's good training--even harsher than space. And I don't wantto bypass and miss anything. Oh, hell, Charlie--I'll get farther, soon,too! But I really don't even know what I'll do, yet. Got to wait and seehow the cards fall..."
Several hours before the rest of the Bunch curved into a slow orbit athousand miles above the Moon, Glen Tiflin set the ionic of his bubb forfull acceleration, and arced away, outward, perhaps toward the Belt.
"So long, all you dumb slobs!" his voice hissed in their helmet-phones."Now I get really lost! If you ever cross my path again, watch yourheads..."
Art Kuzak's flare of anger died. "Good riddance," he breathed. "How longwill he last, alone? Without a space-fitness card, the poor idiotprobably imagines himself a big, dangerous renegade, already."
Joe Kuzak's answering tone almost had a shrug in it. "Don't jinx ourluck, twin brother," he said. "For that matter, how long will _we_last...? Mex, did you toss Tiflin back his shiv?"
"A couple of hours ago," Ramos answered mildly.
Everybody was looking down at the Moon, whose crater-pocked ugliness andbeauty was sparsely dotted with the blue spots of stellene domes, manyof them housing embryo enterprises that were trying to beat the blastoffcost of necessities brought from Earth, and to supply spacemen andcolonists with their needs, cheaply.
The nine fragile rings were soon in orbit. One worker-recruiting rocketand several trader-rockets--much less powerful than those needed toachieve orbit around Earth--because lunar gravity was only one-sixth ofthe terrestrial--were floating in their midst. On the Moon it had ofcourse been known that a fresh Bunch was on the way. Even telescopescould have spotted them farther off than the distance of their 240,000mile leap.
Frank Nelsen's tongue tasted of brassy doubt. He didn't know where he'dbe, or what luck, good or bad, he might run into, within the next hour.
The Kuzaks were palavering with the occupants of two heavily-loadedtrader rockets. "Sure we'll buy--if the price is right," Art was saying."Flasks of water and oxygen, medicines, rolls of stellene. Spare partsfor Archies, ionics, air-restorers. Food, clothes--anything we can sell,ourselves..."
The Kuzaks must have at least a few thousand dollars, which they hadprobably managed to borrow when they had gone home to Pennsylvania tosay goodbye.
Out here, free of the grip of any large sphere, there was hardly a limitto the load which their ionics could eventually accelerate sufficientlyto travel tremendous distances. Streamlining, in the vacuum, of coursewasn't necessary, either.
Now a small, sharp-featured man in an Archie, drifted close to Ramos andFrank, as they floated near their bubbs. "Hello, Ramos, hello, Nelsen,"he said. "Yes--we know your names. We investigate, beforehand, down onterra firma. We even have people to snap photographs--often you don'teven notice. We like guys with talent who get out here by their ownefforts. Shows they got guts--seriousness! But now you've arrived. Weare Lunar Projects Placement. We need mechanics, process technicians,administrative personnel--anything you can name, almost. Any bright ladwith drive enough to learn fast, suits us fine. Five hundred bucks anEarth-week, to start, meals and lodging thrown in. Quit any time youwant. Plenty of different working sites. Mines, refineries, factories,construction..."
"Serenitatis Base?" Ramos asked almost too quickly, Frank thought. Andhe sounded curiously serious. Was this the Ramos who should be going alot farther than the Moon, anyway?
"Hell, yes, fella!" said the job scout.
"Then I'll sign."
"Excellent... You, too, guy?" The scout was looking at Frank. "And yourother friends?"
"I'm thinking about it," Frank answered cagily. "Some of them aren'tstopping on the Moon, as you can see."
Mitch Storey was lashing a few flasks of oxygen and water to the rim ofhis bubb, being careful to space them evenly for static balance. Hedidn't have the money to buy much more, even here.
The Kuzaks were preparing two huge bundles of supplies, which theyintended to tow. Reynolds was also loading up a few things, withTwo-and-Two helping him.
"I'm all set, Frank!" Two-and-Two shouted. "I'm going along withCharlie, maybe to crash the Venus exploration party!"
"Good!" Frank shouted back, glad that this large, unsure person hadfound himself a leader.
Now he looked at Gimp Hines, riding the spinning rim of his ring withhis good and bad leg dangling, an expectant, quizzical, half-worriedlook on his freckled face.
But Dave Lester was more pathetic. He had stopped the rotation of hisbubb. He looked down first at the pitted, jagged face of the Moon, withan expression in which rapture and terror may have been mingled, glancedwith the hope of desperation toward the job scout, and then distractedlycontinued dismantling the rigging of his vehicle, as if to repack it inthe blastoff drum for a landing.
"Hey--hold on, Les!" Two-and-Two shouted. "You gotta know where you'regoing, first!"
"Make up your mind, Nelsen," said the job scout, getting impatient. "Wehandle just about everything lunar--except in the Tovie areas. Withoutus, you're just a lost, fresh punk!"
But another man had approached from another lunar GO rocket, which hadjust appeared. He had a thin intellectual face, dark eyes, trap mouth,white hair,
soft speech that was almost shy.
"I'm Xavier Rodan," he said. "I search out my own employees. I dominerals survey--for gypsum, bauxite--anything. And site survey, forfactories and other future developments. I also have connections withthe Selenographic Institute of the University of Chicago. It is allinteresting work, but in a rather remote region, I'm afraid--the farside of the Moon. And I can pay only three hundred a week. Of course youcan resign whenever you wish. Perhaps you'd be interested--Mr. Nelsen,is it?"
Frank had an impulse to jump at the chance--though there was a warningcoming to him from somewhere. But how could you ever know? You wouldalways have to go down to that devils' wilderness to find out.
"I'll try it, Mr. Rodan," he said.
"Selenography--that's one of my favorite subjects, sir!" David Lesterburst out, making a gingerly leap across the horrible void of sphericalsky--stars in all directions except where the Moon's bulk hung. "CouldI--too?" His trembling mouth looked desperate.
"Very well, boy," Rodan said at last. "A hundred dollars for a week'swork period."
Frank was glad that Lester had a place to go--and furious that he wouldprobably have to nursemaid him, after all.
Gimp Hines kept riding the rim of his ring like a merry-go-round, hisface trying to show casual humor and indifference over ruefulness andscare. "Nobody wants me," he said cheerfully. "It's just prejudice andpoor imagination. Well--I don't think I'll even try to prove how good Iam. Of course I could shoot for the asteroids. But I'd like to lookaround Serenitatis Base--some, anyway. Will fifty bucks get me and myrig down?"
"Talk to our pilot, Lame Fella," said the job scout. "But you must besuicidal nuts to be around here at all."
The others leapt to help Nelsen, Ramos, Gimp and Lester strip and packtheir gear. Ramos' and Gimp's drums were loaded into the job scout'srocket. Nelsen's and Lester's went into Rodan's.
Gloved hands clasped gloved hands all around. The Bunch, the PlanetStrappers, were breaking up.
"So long, you characters--see you around," said Art Kuzak. "It won't beten years, before you all wind up in the Belt."
"Bring back the Mystery of Mars, Mitch!" Frank was saying.
"When you get finished Mooning, come to Venus, Lover Lad," Reynolds toldRamos. "But good luck!"
"Jeez--I'm gonna get sentimental," Two-and-Two moaned. "Luck everybody.Come on, Charlie--let's roll! I don't want to slobber!"
"I'll catch up with you all--watch!" Gimp promised.
"So long, Frank..."
"Yeah--over the Milky Way, Frankie!"
"_Hasta luego_, Gang." This was all Ramos, the big mouth, had to say. Hewasn't glum, exactly. But he was sort of preoccupied and impatient.
The five remaining rings--a wonderful sight, Frank thought--began tomove out of orbit. Ships with sails set for far ports. No--mere ships ofthe sea were nothing, anymore. But would all of the Bunch survive?
Charlie Reynolds, the cool one, the most likely to succeed, wavedjauntily and carelessly from his rotating, accelerating ring.Two-and-Two wagged both arms stiffly from his.
Mitch Storey's bubb, lightest loaded, was jumping ahead. But you couldhear him playing _Old Man River_ on his mouth organ, inside his helmet.
The Kuzaks' bubbs, towing massive loads, were accelerating slowest, withthe ex-gridiron twins riding the rigging. But their rings would dwindleto star specks before long, too.
The job scout's rocket, carrying Ramos and Gimp, began to flame for alanding at Serene.
In the airtight cabin of Xavier Rodan's vehicle, Frank Nelsen and DavidLester had read and signed their contracts and had received theircopies.
Rodan didn't smile. "Now we'll go down and have a look at the place I'minvestigating," he said.